


History Doesn't Repeat (If You Don't Let It)

by lilithiumwords



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gandalf Meddles, M/M, Pre-Slash, Time Travel, Timeline Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithiumwords/pseuds/lilithiumwords
Summary: Bilbo might be a historian, but he certainly didn't mean to travel back to King Thorin's time, millennia ago. It's probably Gandalf's fault, anyway.





	History Doesn't Repeat (If You Don't Let It)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KaavyaWriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaavyaWriting/gifts).



> This was started on the prompt-a-thon on [tumblr](https://amberstarfight.tumblr.com/) for @kaavyawriting, then continued due to popular demand. I might post more of it at some point.

When Bilbo opens his eyes, his vision is washed with gray that throbs in time with the ache in his head. He moans softly and burrows deeper into his pillow, grimacing as the grass scratches his cheek.

"What did I drink..."

"I dunno about that, lad, but ye might want to worry about somethin' else for a bit."

The unfamiliar voice, with a deep Dwarven accent, makes Bilbo's eyes fly open. He scrambles to sit up and flails, startled to find that his hands are bound with heavy rope. He gapes down at his hands, then carefully sits up, wary that he has fallen into some strange sort of trap. He looks up and stops. Stares.

Dwarves. A whole group of them, perhaps numbering upwards of two dozen, all watching him with equal suspicion, muttering things in Khuzdul, of which Bilbo understands only half. Most are gathered around a large bonfire, where Bilbo can hear sausages sizzling, though the tallest of the bunch are standing in one spot, scowls on their faces. One of the Dwarves crouches at his feet and grins, his floppy hat falling over his eyes.

"Twitchy little bugger, aren't you? You aren't a Dwarf, that's for sure, but I can't say you're a goblin, either. Waistcoat's too fine."

"Goblins don't carry handkerchiefs, either," drawls another Dwarf with his rust-colored hair parted into three. He spins a knife on his finger and grins at Bilbo, a little too sharply for his nerves. 

"If he's not a goblin, and he's not a Dwarf, then what the hell is he?" asks the largest of the Dwarves, a tall fellow with a bald head and a deadly glare. The Dwarves descend into argument, each suggesting an identity more outlandish than the last.

Bilbo blinks several times. He is somewhere unknown, with a company of Dwarves that wear armor, hairstyles, and jewelry that look nothing like the styles of the small groups of Dwarves he has met in Bree. In fact, if Bilbo squints, he can make out some of the designs, though those pieces look esoteric compared to any he has seen a Dwarf wearing recently. Not to mention the fact that he is bound, and that these Dwarves seem to distrust him for some unknown reason.

Bilbo may have drunk a little too much last night, but he is still rather certain that, when he fell asleep, he was in his humble home in the Shire, filled with good food and beer, after a long and pleasant evening with his old friend, Gandalf. In fact, they had spent much of the evening arguing (in a good-natured sort of way) about Dwarven kings and their reigns.

He narrows his eyes. "Excuse me," he says during a small lull in the argument. Most of the Dwarves fail to pay attention, but the chap with the hat and an older fellow, with a large white beard, look at him in askance. Bilbo huffs a little, shifting his hands in the uncomfortable bindings. "Have any of you seen a tall fellow with a pointed hat? Smokes a pipe, speaks like he knows everything you don't?"

The Dwarf with the large beard frowns. "That sounds like a Wizard. Are you friends with one?"

The Dwarf with the hat chortles. "Shouldn't be messing with Wizards, lad, they're always up to no good. Not that I've met one, mind."

Bilbo's headache worsens with a sharp ache. He is going to kill Gandalf. "I suspect he is the reason I am in your company. I'm sure this is a mistake -- and why have you got me tied up, anyway? I haven't done anything to you!"

"Don't know what ye are, so we're not taking any chances," interjects the large bald Dwarf, who scowls at him. "Speaking of which, what the hell are you? _Beardless little bugger,_ " he adds in Khuzdul, making several people snicker.

Bilbo puffs up with affront, forgetting where he is and the fact that the scary Dwarf has a very large, sharp axe. "I beg your pardon! I am Bilbo Baggins, historian of the Shire, at your service. Hardly a _what_ , and of course I don't have a beard! I'm a Hobbit, and we don't bother with that nonsense. My goodness, I've never met a Dwarf so rude."

The Dwarves all stop stalking and stare at him. It is then that Bilbo realizes that he just admitted that he understands Khuzdul, which might not be a good thing.

"Historian, you say?" asks a deep voice from behind the gaping bald Dwarf, and out steps another very tall (and quite handsome, Bilbo's traitorous mind notes) Dwarf. This Dwarf has shining black hair, keen blue eyes, and a glittering crown on his head. Bilbo's irritation abruptly drains out of him, and he gapes in shock.

He knows that crown -- it is the crown of King Thorin I, King of Durin's Folk. He looked at a picture of it just last night!

Belatedly, Bilbo realizes that the King Thorin I lookalike is waiting for him to answer. "Yes. Um... who are you?"

"Who is he? How dare you! This is King Thorin, King of Durin's Folk!" the bald Dwarf growls, but King Thorin raises his hand to calm him.

"It is fine, Dwalin. I suspect that our guest has much to tell us." He eyes Bilbo for a long moment, then gestures at his hands. "Untie the halfling. I would question him."

"Halfling?" Bilbo sputters, before he is hauled up and the ropes cut away. Bilbo shuffles away from the Dwarf who grabbed him, glaring and rubbing his wrists, then looking after King Thorin with apprehension.

Just what is going on?

King Thorin leads him to a tent at the back of the camp, where two Dwarven guards stand, heavily armed. Bilbo eyes them as he passes into the tent, which is decorated with rich tapestries, a map on the far wall, and even a table. Thorin gestures to a chair on one side of the table and sits down after Bilbo does, pulling a pipe from one of his many pockets and lighting it.

Bilbo doesn't recognize the pipeweed -- and he has smoked with many Dwarves in the past.

"So," Thorin says, breathing out a thick cloud of smoke, "you say you are from the Shire."

Bilbo frowns a little, wary of the small crowd of Dwarves lingering at the entryway. "I am from the Shire, make no mistake. I'm not certain how I even came here, or where this is." _I'm not even certain what year it is,_ he doesn't say.

Thorin gestures at the map, pointing to a small area not far from Erebor, the infamous Lonely Mountain. "You are here. My entourage and I are traveling to Ered Mithrin. You have heard of our mountains, correct?" Thorin asks, raising an eyebrow at Bilbo.

His face must have gone pale. Bilbo can only nod silently, his eyes fixed on the point where Thorin's finger rests.

Thorin watches him for a moment, before continuing, "As for how you came to be in our company, we found you unconscious in the woods. You had no weapons or gold on you, nor did you respond for several hours. Our physicians noted that you were alive and had no wounds, but had no explanation for your state."

Bilbo says nothing. He is going to _kill Gandalf._

"The Shire is rather far from here. What is the last thing you remember?"

Bilbo blinks a few times, meeting Thorin's eyes. His steady gaze calms Bilbo a little. "I was at home, in Hobbiton. I live at the end of Bagshot Row, at Bag End. Last night, I had a friend over... a Wizard named Gandalf. We had a lot to drink, and we got into an argument -- a friendly sort, nothing serious -- about the book I'm writing. He insisted that King Náin the First had taken his people from Khazad-dûm to Erebor, which is true, but Gandalf believed it was because of riches found in Erebor. I told him, no, it was because of an ancient evil, and I had the texts to prove it, and..."

Thorin is staring at him, a little wide-eyed now. Bilbo shrinks a little, then clears his throat and straightens up. He knows his facts. "In any case, he finally accepted that I was right, and I went to bed. I was a little drunk, but I do not remember... well, _anything_ that would have brought me here. So far away from home," he adds faintly. He feels a little sick to his stomach.

Behind him, Bilbo can hear muttering, from suspicion over his tale to doubt that he is even telling the truth. Thorin says nothing for a long while, his keen gaze dropping to the map, and Bilbo tries not to have a breakdown.

This is definitely Gandalf's fault, somehow, or this is a great dream that he hasn't woken from yet. Either way, Bilbo is in quite a spot of trouble.

"I am inclined to believe you," Thorin says at last, and all of the muttering stops behind them.

"What?" Bilbo says, shocked. He barely believes himself!

His surprise must amuse Thorin, because a small smile touches his lips. "Your clothes are not worn from travel, nor do you have any supplies. You have an accent of Westron that even I do not recognize. Somehow, you know our illustrious history and even some of our language, and only close friends of our people would know such details. Most of all, you say you have befriended a Wizard, and they are nearly always embroiled in forces that normal folk cannot hope to understand. Clearly, you are not from this side of the world, and though I cannot tell you how to get back to your Shire, I can at least offer you shelter until we reach our new home. What say you, Bilbo Baggins?"

Bilbo breathes out a little. At least Thorin seems to be kind -- though what the truth is, Bilbo has little idea. For all he knows, Gandalf has sent him hundreds of years back into the past -- as if to prove Bilbo wrong!

"Yes... thank you, King Thorin. I really do appreciate it." He holds Thorin's gaze and smiles, and he is pleased when Thorin smiles back, for all that he also notices the cunning glittering in Thorin's keen eyes.

At least it's something.


End file.
